


Mostly Convenient

by Runespoor



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, least romantic pairing on earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-16
Updated: 2010-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/pseuds/Runespoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TemaShika matter-of-fact equivalent of fluff, or, what their relationship is about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mostly Convenient

**Author's Note:**

> This was part of a verse that has since become an Old Shame of mine. The gist of it is that there was a war, out of which all of the Rookie Nine came out alive, though with considerable traumas. They've just had an end-of-the-war celebratory dinner, during which things have mostly eased back into gossip.
> 
> I still like this fic, though.

The diplomatic quarters were located in a rotund building not far from the Hokage tower, and were typically decorated with flamboyant Fire Country architecture.

Privately, Shikamaru thought the place looked more like a museum and a hotel than a Konoha habitation, but its purpose wasn't just functional; it was there that the Daimyo's envoys took up residence when they came to Konoha.

He supposed the better they were treated, the least likely to bitch to their master they were.

Also, if they could misjudge Konoha's efficiency based on that, or if they could be distracted by pretty tapestries relating the glorious history of Fire Country, the less they'd worry about the existence of a more or less autonomic and heavily-armed nation within their borders.

Originally he'd been thrown when he'd seen Temari in these luxurious surroundings.

It wasn't just the shimmering hangings and the yielding sheets, the unctuous softness against which she stood out like a tear. But even with the polished, hard-looking stoned embedded to the walls, even with the promised hardness of the intricately-sculpted headstand, the idea of Temari seemed foreign.

He'd seen her like that, casually resting her fan against some shiny, shiny piece of furniture, sliding open a paper-thin door inlaid with that looked suspiciously like mother-of-pearl (how much exactly had gone into this throwing dust in the visitors' eyes?) without even a glance – the first time he'd seen that Shikamaru had actually felt his heart stopping, _oh shit she's gonna break that door what am I gonna tell the Hokage?_

Then he'd seen her fling her obi flying through the room and coiling around of the priceless-threatening _things_ , but at this point he'd been more focused on the feral smirk she was directing his way and the distracting tilt of her hips to register more than a fleeting worry that she'd send the ornament toppling and crashing into the ground.

Before Temari, Shikamaru would never have believed it was possible for a girl to be so – not simple, and not even straight-forward, but rough.

Must be the desert, Shikamaru thought as he was waiting for her, sitting on her bed and letting his eyes wander across the room.

Temari's lodgings had stayed the same for over three years now, since she'd become Suna's principal envoy to Konoha, though she hadn't had much use for it during the war, of course. The main décor of the room was standard diplomatic quarter business, because Temari had never bothered changing it, but the place still retained a very lived-in quality.

Currently it looked as though the room had been hit by a sand tempest.

And it wasn't even as if they'd been frolicking or something.

As far as Shikamaru had been able to gather, Temari just didn't seem to notice the mess. Or, if she did, it wasn't when Shikamaru was around to hear.

What was laying around was very different from most of the girly, frilly stuff that could sometimes be found cluttering Ino's room – even if sitting on Ino's bed, Shikamaru had made the mistake too many times to count, was still an open invitation to getting your rear guard viciously attacked by a furious cat/kunai combo.

Frightening things lurked under Ino's covers, but Shikamaru didn't ask. He and Chouji had had it beat into them that you didn't ask a girl about her bed.

Temari, by contrast, didn't hide weapons or miniature ninja wars in the shape of a pet between her sheets. Additionally, Shikamaru wouldn't have thought of asking her about it. If only because as one of the starring actors, he was well aware of what went on there.

Unlike every other girl Shikamaru had ever met, Temari didn't give the impression she was deliberately trying to mess with his head.

When they had a fight – and did they ever have their fair share of fights – it wasn't because of a misunderstanding, because of his taking things at face value and her getting upset because he'd failed at delivering a compliment.

Which he did fail at, utterly, unless it was related to a battle strategy they were planning together and she pinpointed a new use for some useful tactics, and even then, it was more a nod and a side note of thanks while they companionably frowned at the map and she was chewing on her lip.

She did that look when she was thinking. Shikamaru noticed, because she wasn't otherwise given to nervous tics.

Their fights were so far entirely devoid of Silent Treatments of any sort, and were always born out of their violent clashing.

It was a great relief.

So, Shikamaru had made his peace with having a not-relationship with _her_ , on the grounds that she wasn't as likely to flip off the handle as most of the other females he'd come to meet over the years, and he knew for a fact that she had logic and brains to back the brawns up, and she wasn't afraid to use them.

Must be the desert too, he'd concluded.

Maybe there was something about living in the middle of one that made you less subject to flights of fancy, because if you didn't you quickly became dead. Or you learned to be warier of the sun from earlier on, and thus wouldn't be catching sunstroke from wanting to perfect your tan.

Those were the sorts of hypothesis he kept to himself when Ino had a moment.

Didn't want to get involved when Ino worked herself up into one of her rants at Chouji, who was placidly just there and listening, waiting for when she stopped – after ten to fifteen minutes of uninterrupted ranting, even Ino's recriminations dribbled up.

Generally Chouji offered her some chips when she was done, which caused Ino to start again slightly less than half the time. That didn't stop her from munching at them moodily, though, like she did the other half of the time, when she looked so damn relieved – the pout with teary eyes thing, Shikamaru had finally understood after several years of exposure to the face.

Shikamaru wasn't sure he understood all the technicalities involved, but he nursed a healthy dose of respect toward Chouji. He wouldn't have enjoyed having to put himself in this position at all.

All in all, Shikamaru felt vaguely indebted to Suna for getting Temari as she was now.

Some would have said that she was too much like a man. (Which she wasn't. Temari wore perfume.) Shikamaru didn't care, because that was jealousy. He knew better that anyone how very much not like a man Temari was. (She'd once called him 'excruciatingly straight'.) Privately, Shikamaru estimated that Temari calling herself a girl ought to be enough of a proof.

But none of it – especially not the Sand-nin part – explained why Temari took so damn long in the shower.

 _That_ was a girl thing.

"Forty minutes," he called when the bathroom door was slid open. "Is it even possible for someone to take a forty-minute long shower?"

It was a close thing, but Shikamaru managed to grab the towel aimed straight at his head, mostly because he's been expecting it and grabbing things thrown at your face was the first step toward that old man routine he hoped to achieve. Temari was still fast enough that even with all the warnings, there was no guarantee he'd catch it, and if he didn't, he'd never see the end of it.

She'd make just one comment, but then she'd spend days smirking.

Temari had a very expressive smirk.

The towel was seeping water into his hand, but Shikamaru quickly forgot about it when he looked up at Temari.

She was smirking; her still-wet hair was plastered to her neck, since she'd forsaken drying it in favour of throwing the towel at him; she was wrapped in a big white towel that stopped above mid-thigh level, and which would probably be threatening to slip down if she wasn't currently holding it up.

Shikamaru watched, fascinated, as the dripping water drew glistening rivulets down her jaw and neck, down her cleavage, all the way down where her hand was holding the towel into place.

Temari's hand looked shockingly brown against the fluffy whiteness of the towel; Shikamaru knew her skin to be a bit dry, she couldn't be bothered to take proper care of it. By contrast, her breasts were pale; her tan spread slowly, skin tone darkening almost imperceptibly, to the always bared skin of her hands and feet. Even her face was paler, occasionally hidden from the harsh rays of the Suna sun by some kind of veil or hood, Shikamaru supposed.

Most of Temari reminded Shikamaru of dust and honey, with planes and angles he was forever rediscovering, because Temari's tan, like the dunes of her home country, was forever shifting, according to the outfit she'd taken to wear or a handful of weeks spent in Konoha rain.

Shikamaru knew what he was talking about, because he'd been to Suna himself, on occasion. He'd been annoyed to discover that sand really did worm its way into everywhere, and hadn't been surprised to find Temari standing there in his Suna inn room, looking like a cat who'd got the cream, as he was grumbling and trying to get it off his sheets, though he'd never heard her arriving.

Never mind spotting her; he'd noted she was always much more mindful of her shadow – hiding it when she wanted to sneak on him unnoticed or sprawling it into the sun – than any other ninja he'd ever met outside of his clan.

He'd wondered if it was maybe that their fight during his chuunin exam had burnt her that badly, or if, as a Sand-nin, she had been taught to be careful about the sun and its tricks. Lately he'd favoured the interpretation that she wasn't the sort of shinobi who'd overlook a potential hazard.

"If you didn't want to wait, you should've joined me," she retorted.

Shikamaru rolled his eyes and pretended he hadn't heard. (Why hadn't he, anyway?) "What, they lifted the water rationing in Suna? Aren't you Sand-nins taught to be economical with water?"

From where she was rummaging through a heap of clothes, she snorted.

"With Konoha's water resources, the only person my taking hour-long showers bothers is you, and I already told you the solution. If you don't take it, it's your problem, not mine. And as to your previous question-" she paused a second to slip on a top she'd extracted from the pile "-we're still a few months away from the point we can return to our pre-war standards. Hopefully sooner, since Gaara's getting better at regulating the sandstorms."

From his handful of trips to Suna, Shikamaru had learnt that sandstorms would often bury and obstruct sources of water; Suna knew how to deal with these, so it never threatened the survival of the village, but it would put a setback on their post-war reorganisation. The Kazekage had other duties than simply commanding to the desert.

Suna had been less of a target for the Sound's attacks; they weren't the ones Orochimaru held a grudge against. But then, it had also been besieged.

From what Shikamaru could guess, the reconstruction process was much more visible in Temari's village, where whole areas had been evacuated when there had been hints that Cloud was poisoning the wells.

She must miss it.

She was probably wishing she was in her village right now, helping among her fellow Suna citizens, with her brothers.

Temari plopped on the bed with a sigh, resting her weight on her arms, her head tilted backwards. Her hair was soaking the T-shirt she slept in.

"Well, that was an interesting dinner," she remarked out of the blue.

He grunted, not bothering to glance at her.

Interesting she may have found it, but, in his opinion, it had mostly been troublesome. What else?

Ino had got rather spectacularly drunk and only Chouji's soothing presence had kept her from having a breakdown right there and then, Sai had managed to start a fight with practically every person present, Hinata's sexual life had been discussed in agonizing detail, and he rather suspected there was more to Team Seven's new-found unity that he'd have previously suspected.

The rare positive thing was that Temari hadn't, in fact, leaped on the occasion to play footsie with him.

It was one of the things he appreciated about her. Her kind of teasing was more of a visual nature.

This, he tended to appreciate less, as it was always meant as a challenge and often followed by a remark that would either 1) attract the attention of everyone to _him_ , and/or 2) stomp any companionable atmosphere into a mash.

"It was nice, seeing everyone like that," Temari said, in a meaningfully casual tone.

"We all made it?"

She nodded.

He guessed she had a point. Now they all hadn't made it unscathed, but…

Oh, so _that_ was the reason.

"You're not going to tell me I should withdraw my resignation?" he asked suddenly.

He was growing weary of avoiding the subject. Everyone close to him had confronted him about it; tried telling him to _suck it up_ or _think about how they (we) need you_ or _how are you going to earn money now?_

Everyone but Temari.

He didn't get it. Then again, he'd never got how she decided on what she did or didn't do.

But Temari – jounin, brilliant, demanding, and ambitious – how improbable it was that she should let it go. Shikamaru didn't remember one occasion that she'd chosen the easy way out of trouble. Among the people he knew, she was one of the least likely to blind herself to things she didn't want to see.

He sighed inwardly. Tonight would be the night.

He'd known she wouldn't accept it. She'd observed him enough; she must have drawn a battle plan, and in the aftermath of the celebrative dinner she must have decided to step forward. Of course; she was never less hot-headed than when they sparred against one another.

On the one hand, he was almost relieved that they'd have it out in the open.

On the other, he knew he wouldn't change his mind.

He'd already given it enough thought to know he wouldn't. He'd done what he had to; he'd gone to the end of the war and had refused to even indulge into wishful thinking. He'd fought his role to the end of the war. Only after that had he taken his thoughts out; unfolding them, smoothing the wrinkles and dust away with the flat of his hand and examining what he was left with.

It had come as a mild surprise to find that he had already taken his decision, even as he believed he was pushing it off to after the end of the war, after his village and friends wouldn't need him any more.

He'd only told his teammates before going to the Hokage to give back the last form. Ino had gone white and looked like she was going to cry, except she had screamed instead; and Chouji had just looked as if he was fifty years older for a moment, and he had closed his eyes in pain.

Shikamaru had felt guilty, too; and he'd almost changed his mind then, because they were his friends and his team and in many ways they were his most precious persons, even if they often didn't understand each other and Shikamaru was reluctant to use a phrase that forcefully reminded him of Team Seven's twisted bonds.

But then he had thought about the war.

The things he'd seen and the things he'd failed to do.

Chouji at the end of that very first mission he'd led and Ino now, who wasn't a ninja any more than him, with an eye veiled like a Hyuuga's and a stump in the place of her arm.

Maybe he would still have followed his father's advice from years before, stayed there because at least he knew the mistakes he'd be likely to make ( _at least he knew he would make less than others_ ), had he not seen what being a ninja ( _weapon to your village_ ) really meant, with the war.

_It was always more convenient to simply kill the enemies, but often they never even tried to shake them free of Orochimaru's grasp._

It was odd, because Shikamaru had never thought himself an idealist and much less a hero, but he'd been unable to face the eight-year olds Orochimaru was fond of using as if they were nothing but other enemies. Even after one had shred a bloody path among the Konoha ranks, even as he trapped her (it was a her, wasn't it? It was always so hard to tell with the Second-Level curses) and choked her with his shadow, he was unable to shake the thought that it was a child he was fighting. Killing.

Had it been just the one time (the one child), then Shikamaru knew he would have been able to deal with it; it would only have strengthened his resolve not to join ANBU and avoid assassination missions.

But it hadn't been one.

Some nights Shikamaru had found himself crying when he was alone. Sometimes he had been terrified witless – blood running cold – that once he might actually hesitate before killing one; that the monster-shaped child would break free, and that Shikamaru would've as well as killed comrades because he'd been unable to act.

When the Hokage had asked him, in that piercing way of hers ( _with a dismissive wave of the hand; "it's off the tape"_ ), what were his real reasons, Shikamaru had fleetingly wondered how she'd be treating Naruto if he was the one in her office. Would she call him brat? Then he'd been reminded that Tsunade hadn't always been a model ninja in her time.

Anyway, he'd have answered truthfully no matter what; she'd already signed and stamped the necessary forms, and Shikamaru wasn't a Konoha-nin anymore.

_"I'd make a bad ninja; I never want to have to kill a child again. I'd be a liability to any mission."_

To him the reasons were equally important.

Tsunade had only sighed as if it was something she'd been expecting, which wasn't implausible, as the process had taken him five days to be completed, between the official time plateau separating each step and his refusal to rush it.

She'd nodded and asked him if he wanted to keep his hitai-ate, when he'd already been in the middle of sliding it across the desk. He'd stopped to consider for a moment, wondering if he'd somehow done something to let her think he regretted some part of his decision.

Finally he'd acquiesced.

His voice had been strained when he'd answered.

 _"If something happens again,"_ he'd swallowed the lump in his throat, _"and I'm needed for strategy or courier or – something where I won't risk other people's lives – I have to."_

The metal-and-cloth symbol had scrapped on the wooden surface of the desk when he'd taken it back, more slowly than when he'd set it there. Tsunade had gestured him to approach, with a twitch of the fingers. Frowning a little, Shikamaru had, walking to the other side of the desk where she had taken the hitai-ate from his hand.

He had started as she'd tied it back around his arm and had felt unaccountably awkward. No, wait, maybe the awkwardness maybe sense. This was _the Hokage_.

He'd point-blank repressed every other reason why this would feel strange, which had mostly to do with his mother, or Temari, or the Hokage's general appearance, or more likely all of three at once.

Then the Hokage had let her hands drop and quipped one of those stern-eyed little smiles of hers. _"Don't wear it after that if you don't want to. But wear it today. Hokage's orders."_

Shikamaru had bowed and left the office; he'd felt her eyes on his back as he did.

He'd started sobbing when he was in the toilets, door locked and his shoulders shaking. (One day the Fifth Secret War would break out.)

After going home, he'd told his parents, and everyone else, including Temari.

He'd told her last, when they'd been having dango out and pretending it was a suitable replacement for dinner. She'd been working the whole day, busy with the files of the Konoha candidates for the student exchange. It'd been the first since the war, and the first that had Temari as the sole interlocutor on Suna's side.

Now he could see her reaction had only been delayed for tactical thinking.

She glanced at him, without turning her head, and she took a breath, with one of those quicksilver grins that Shikamaru was only sure he hadn't imagined because they imprinted themselves on his retinas and stayed there for a few distinct seconds more when he looked at her.

"Nope."

Startled, he blinked at her.

If she were any other girl, he supposed she'd have a half-wistful expression on her face, her eyes secretly sorrowful. But she was Temari, and so she was staring at him straight and harsh, without lowering her eyelashes or smiling bitterly, without removing herself emotionally.

If he raised his hand, he'd touch her cheek, and she wouldn't flinch or force herself to keep up the softness; she might shake her head slightly or narrow her eyes. She'd still be on a level with him, no matter how she disagreed.

"It's your business," she stated, pinning him with her eyes.

He worked his jaw, trying to find something to say. _You're the only one who's told me that._ Or: _Does that mean you don't care?_

He didn't need to ask; he knew she didn't.

For all that she was three years older than him, and in spite of the occasional jokes from other ninjas or the rarer actual concern on her part, she'd never babied him. She wasn't overly girly or maternal; he would have dismissed the concept as just not being part of her character, but he'd seen her with her brothers. He knew well that she was perfectly able to fuss over someone if she wanted to.

It didn't bother him. He was her boyfriend, for lack of a better term, not her younger sibling.

If he was her boyfriend at all. Shikamaru had never stopped to name what they had. It was sometimes a bother, as he never knew what the rules were, but less bothersome still than accepting outside rules, as would be the case if they relented and tagged their relation according to others' expectations.

Tonight, the realisation grated somewhat.

He clenched his jaw. _What are we, right?_

He knew better than to fear she didn't care about him at all, but he was also unsure of how he cared. He seldom bothered to investigate his feelings. That seemed such a waste of time. Now, though, he probed questions at their attachment.

Their agreement was only tacit; Shikamaru respected her; trusted and wanted her.

They worked well together and could keep up with one another's plans when they fought against someone else.

They could have a row without hurting feelings; only a matter of pride, and then the sex was also about pride and anger. They could shrug the other's opinion off when they disagreed and not brood on it. He thought she was reliable enough not to be destructive and unpredictable enough that she never bored him.

They'd never made promises, except for the nonchalant assurances of 'See you in two months' before the war, with its usual edge during the war, such a common occurrence between comrades, 'I won't die', and Temari's yelled threats when she was angry, and Shikamaru's corresponding swearing up and down that she was the most exhausting woman ever.

He didn't know how she'd react if she learned he'd had sex with another girl when she was away.

Would she be jealous?

Would she try to kill him or retaliate in a similar fashion, would she slap her hand on her knee between guffaws, would she be sly and ask if the girl had enjoyed herself ( _all thanks should be redirected toward her, of course_ ), would she smirk and ask if the girl was good ( _Temari was better_ ), would she quirk an eyebrow and ask if that was the first time it's happened ( _she didn't remember telling him to put a chastity belt on, so long as he was available when she was in Konoha she didn't care what he did in his spare time_ ), hell, would she propose a threesome?

He wasn't even sure if he'd want to sleep with another girl.

Yeah, he wasn't blind and sometimes he thought one was cute/pretty/rather hot, but he couldn't imagine anything more than noticing. It did seem too much trouble to bother, judging by his friends' experiences.

Admittedly, he didn't particularly relish the idea that she might sleep with other men when she was away. In fact, he disliked it a great lot. But it wasn't as if he could demand that she didn't, was it?

More to the point, she'd probably tell him if she was. She wasn't one for concealing things. She was a private person, but Shikamaru thought she'd tell him. Their not-relationship _was_ pretty long-lasting.

Finally, he nodded.

On top of being 'pretty long-lasting', it was also something that had taught him to take things in stride.

But then, he wasn't used to letting Temari get away with throwing him off loop without setting one or two surprises of his own. Besides, he'd given the matter some thought before, particularly since he'd resigned from being a ninja, coming to the conclusion that it was best for everyone involved.

"I'm planning on getting my own place," he said tranquilly.

Her eyebrows shot up on her brow, but after a moment she smiled. It was a crooked smile; with the lights in the room, it made her look like as if she had a dimple on her left cheek.

Shikamaru found himself suddenly tense.

"Good," she drawled. "Now we'll have two places to screw at. Good thinking."

On impulse, Shikamaru leaned forward and kissed her. Her hair was very cold under his fingers, and the wetness rendered his skin a bit sticky. When she demandingly parted her lips, he wanted to laugh.

_I'll stick with you even if you aren't a ninja._

His heart soared. He let it.


End file.
